


Second Shift

by Meatball42



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Best Friends, Catharsis, Comfort/Angst, Gen, M/M, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 01:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12996636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: First rule of working in a kitchen: customers are going to want their food regardless of what's going on in your life. But that doesn't mean you have to bear it alone.





	Second Shift

Riley is doing better today, so Sam spends the whole morning with him, coaxing tired smiles from his boyfriend’s pale face. The nurses make him leave the hospital around noon to ‘get some rest’. He kisses Riley gently and goes home, where instead of resting, he cries for about two hours straight, and then he has to go to work.

Luckily, in a busy kitchen, no one looks at you too closely.

The last of the meats need to be prepped, stacked, and labelled before he switches over to salads. The orders there come fast and heavy. It’s a busy night, so Natasha’s been seconded to expediting; she’s constantly saying ‘behind’ and ‘on your left’ in a voice pitched just lower than normal, so no one slams into her besides Thor. Luckily, Thor has skin like leather, so he never drops what he’s holding anyway. Sam blames it on the fact that, while he’s technically fluent, no one is entirely sure that Thor actually personally understands English, much less than he’s legally supposed to be here speaking it.

There are a decent amount of ‘custom’ orders on the salads today, which means Sam’s swearing under his breath into a gluten-free substitution medium-size Greek, when they typically serve neither substitution nor Greek salads, when Stark rushes by with a crisp ‘hot behind!’ and a drawled ‘Seem tense there birdie, boyfriend not relaxing you?”

Sam glares at the salad in front of him and takes two long, deep breaths before moving on. Anything more would be noticed.

Everything’s going relatively fine- one of Clint’s tureens of soup came out too salty and had to be remade, which set them back and caused a lot of squawking- until the softball team shows up around nine, loud and hungry off winning some sort of title. Sam’s gloves are covered in dressing anyway, so he strips them into the trash can and rubs his aching forehead and temples for a solid ten seconds before washing his hands up to the elbows. Luckily none of the softball players claim to be allergic to gluten.

It’s five ‘til close when Natasha (‘on your left, Sam,’) apologetically passes him a custom-order salad. Sam nearly cries onto his pristine, shining, fully-cleaned, prepped-for-tomorrow station. But he fetches his shit back from Luke on dish and makes the most passive-aggressively perfect salad possible.

He’s trudging out the back door, head down parallel to the ground, energy just about spent, when he feels the warmth surround him. A thin, pale arm sneaks under one of his and around his waist, and on the other side a tall figure radiates heat. Behind him, Sam senses, another presence has taken its place.

“How is he?” Natasha murmurs.

Sam sniffs. “Not so hot.”

“I’ll talk to Stark, if you want,” Steve growls on the other side. He steps ahead to force open the creaky, cast-iron gate blocking the restaurant’s alley from the street, letting loose a horrid screech as it moves. They pass through, and Bucky closes it in absolute silence.

“No, I-” Sam forces himself to breathe deeply. They’re nearly to his car, and then it’s just a few minutes home, and then back to the hospital. “Stark doesn’t-”

“Stark doesn’t know shit,” Bucky interrupts quietly. “We’ll make sure he knows it.”

“You want company?” Natasha asks.

Sam shakes his head, but as they all draw closer, he realizes which way the wind’s blowing. “I don’t get much of a choice, do I,” he asks, the corners of his lips twitching upwards for real for the first time in days.

“Nope,” Steve teases, opening the passenger door and deftly maneuvering Sam’s tired form inside. “We’ve got you,” he says, and the others nod. “You’re not alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> Am I posting this because I'm going to be sick tomorrow? Of course not, why would you think that? Any cuddles for Sam and Riley would be nice, you know, for them.


End file.
